Gemotions

“Go to Paris. Learn to bake bread. Tell your son you love him.” The words blurred before David. His father, the man of few words, had written this, now. The irony burned. He'd spent his whole life craving those simple words of affection, and now, when it was too late, they were here, written on a piece of paper. David slammed his fist on the table, the old wood groaning in protest.

He wouldn’t go to Paris. He wouldn’t learn to bake bread. He wouldn’t. His gaze locked on the list, a bitter reminder. He snatched the paper from the desk, tore it in half, then again, and again, until the pieces were scattered like confetti.